


Alpha Male

by Calliopinot



Series: Yard Wolves [3]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: BDSM!Skwistok, Dealing With The Emotional and Physical Effects of Trauma, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Porn, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Toki's crazy and Skwisgaar's fucked up that's pretty much all you need to know, Trauma Being a Nasty BDSM Beatdown From Before
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 12:10:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15994940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Calliopinot/pseuds/Calliopinot
Summary: With a heavy sigh, he slid his hand to the edge of the bed.Toki took it.For now, that was enough.It wasn't enough.





	Alpha Male

They were ghosts. Figments of the collective imaginations of the three who remained.

All of them were, really, each in his own way. Without all five together, no music could be made. No camaraderie could be had. So each disappeared into his own world – a fantasy of a side project that would never see the light of day; a mélange of chemicals and compounds that made time immaterial; a genuine yet futile attempt at education and enrichment that belied the density of its pupil.

Murderface and Pickles and Nathan were fed a vague story about an accident. Skwisgaar and Toki went out drunk driving again. They weren't so lucky to walk away with minor cuts and bruises this time. It was good enough to explain Skwisgaar's injuries and Toki's absence. It absolved them of responsibility to visit or tend to either one. They were _too_ sick.

They remained phantoms even after their respective returns to Mordhaus. Toki came home first. His inpatient commitment was only 30 days. Another 15 he requested for good measure, for safety, for fear of what he learned himself to be capable and of what the world outside the comforting walls of institution held.

Toki was grateful for the lack of questions from his bandmates. Charles had briefed him on the lie he was to maintain, but the cocktail of carbamazepine and sertraline that coursed through his bloodstream made his adherence to the façade less than reliable.

He slept most of the time. Counseling sessions and sleep. And meals. Food was important. Remembering to eat. Pickles was the best at Toki's erstwhile duty; snack time necessarily fell to the guy who had the munchies more often than not. So he made sure Toki, like Murderface and Nathan, reported at regular intervals for sustenance.

He became aware, at some point, that Skwisgaar was back. He couldn't tell if it was a week or a month later. The guys just started talking about him being home. Toki hadn't expected a grand reunion, or even a knock on his door. Just some kind of acknowledgement from his counterpart that they once again occupied the same space. And then, maybe, hopefully, some kind of reconciliation.

The recording rooms slowly worked their way into his daily routine. He thought, perhaps, he might run into him there. Evidently Skwisgaar thought so, too. So Toki took the opportunity afforded him to leave notes, recorded onto water, unintentionally mournful tracks that spelled his heart into song.

 

On the fifth or eighth or seventy-second trip, there was Skwisgaar.

Toki stood on the far side of the sound board. He dared not move closer. Skwisgaar looked the same. That was a relief. But he was huddled in a big fur blanket. That was disconcerting.

Fingers twisted a dial, pushed a fader, hit Play. Raw, downtuned chords and trills filled the little room. Another button, and a crystalline melody sang out over it. The combination would be stunning, were they in the business of composing dirges.

" _It's bad, Toki_." Skwisgaar fixed him with a trembling smile as the tears began to fall.

" _Do you know what a 'spinal epidural abscess' is? They go in with a needle_ —" he spaced his fingers six inches apart— " _and drain this swelling on my spine. I can walk for two days, maybe three if I'm lucky. But then it comes back. I'm awake when they do it. Because they can't keep putting me under. Because they're afraid one day I might not wake up. And it hurts. It hurts so much._

" _It just keeps hurting, and I don't know when it's going to stop._ " He held up his hands, utterly helpless, sobbing openly now, uninterested in hiding it.

" _You come down here to find out if I'm mad at you. If I hate you or love you. But I'm in too much pain to feel anything else. So, that's how I am._ "

Toki closed his gaping mouth. Swallowed thickly and nodded. Turned in one direction, then the other, and excused himself from the room. The door had barely shut before the breakfast and bile spilled from his stomach.

 

* * *

 

Tingling always preceded the numbness. It started in his feet, dangerous if he was on them at its onset. He fell, once, hit his head on some piece of heavy furniture or another. Not as bad as it could have been. Just more stitches, more unconsciousness.

Sometimes he would go days before returning to the infirmary. A period of immobility, when he had no desire to be anywhere but his room or the studio anyway, was less objectionable than the horrible pierce of the needle. But sooner than later, every time, the pain of the abscess would build to a point where it was a wash.

 

A servant wheeled him back to his room after he was quite sure Toki had gone. The Gears who tended to him now were always female. He never tried anything with them; he couldn't sustain sexual activity even if he'd desired it. He just couldn't stand being in the presence of men who were stronger than him. Men who were whole.

 

> _0900_

 

A simple message to a number programmed into his phone, and they'd come collect him in the morning. Tonight, he would lie awake, let his thoughts drift, as they always did, to the man down the hall. To the teenager, the pathetic kid who relied on him for everything, whose optimism he'd made it his life's work to systematically dismantle. To that cherubic face, those shimmering eyes that had seen too much, that made him sick with pity and envy and lust. To the times he made that little boy cry, hurt him inside and out, sometimes, in his view, deservedly, more often just for sport. To the sound of his own jaw breaking, the sound that didn't escape his skull, and the ringing, the tone reminiscent of a flatline, that persisted.

These thoughts would cycle until daybreak, sometimes interspersed with a vision of the man as a reaper of death, usually with the image of the grateful smile he'd flash at the end of a good show or practice or recording session, one of those rare times Skwisgaar would withhold criticism, maybe even compliment him. The smile that turned his stomach, now, sent him dry heaving off the side of his bed until tiny pinpricks of darkness led him into some semblance of sleep.

 

* * *

 

Not who he expected at 0900. Mousier. More remorseful, certainly, than any of the orderlies whose job it was to manhandle him onto a stretcher for the ride to the infirmary. He was in too much pain to object. Not too much, though, to refuse the stretcher and the anesthetics. Better to keep an eye on the uninvited company.

 

* * *

 

He smelled the alcohol, then the iodine, then the latex. He watched the needle, filled with an intravenous solution of painkillers and antibiotics, poke around that lithe forearm for a fresh vein. He watched the electrodes stick to translucent skin, the blood pressure cuff slide around a withered bicep, the heart monitor clamp down on a thin, still achingly beautiful index finger. He wasn't avoiding the eyes he knew were boring into his face; he just couldn't help but marvel at the process.

_1-2-3_

And Skwisgaar was rolled onto his right side, strapped down at the legs and waist and across his upper torso. Toki jolted when their hands touched. It was the first time in months, the first time since that morning, right here, when Skwisgaar had given him hope that maybe they would be okay.

The hold was loose, preemptive, wholly unexpected. His other hand, the one with the wires attached, grabbed at the bed rail.

_1-2-3_

And the big needle plunged into the swollen sac along his lower vertebrae. He screamed directly into Toki's soul.

 

* * *

 

It took nine minutes for the white marks on his hand to fade completely. For the half-moon gouges to re-inflate, for the fingerprints to disappear. In that time, Skwisgaar drifted off to sleep, if not rest.

It was exactly as horrible as he described, more awful than Toki expected and entirely his fault. He sat and watched and suffered and tried not to cry and gripped that hand right back, because it was his medicine.

Now, though, everything was quiet, but for the beeps and whirs of those machines. When the feeling came back, he took the chance, reached out and touched the golden hair which framed that troubled face. It was damp, greasy at the roots but puppy soft at the ends. Toki raked his fingers through, grazing knuckles against an ear, a cheek. Pushed the envelope and swept a thumb over parted lips. The bottom was cracked, hard and dry; the top remarkably plush, smooth to the touch.

Eyes fluttered open and his hand jerked back. Skwisgaar probably didn't notice.

They stared at each other, unsure of what to say, how to proceed. Then Skwisgaar, bracingly, sat up. Stood up. Toki backed away, still seated, gave the man the space he needed to do whatever it was he did after these sessions. Toki didn't know.

Toki's hands shook as he stared at them.

_"I can walk now. So you can go."_

Toki's hands shook as he stared at the ill-fitting rubber-tread socks and pathetic cotton gown that hid from view surgical scars and more organic ones. Toki figured they'd have better hospital attire. They were Dethklok. He didn't remember his own stint here.

"I'm trying, Skwisgaar."

Skwisgaar looked down at the mop of brown hair, imagined it a foot shorter, imagined it tangled and matted and crawling with lice.

"Ja."

He could manage the hoodie on his own but spared himself the added pain of bending over. Let Toki guide his feet into the legs of the track pants, appreciated the averted eyes as he pulled them up to his waist. He didn't want to steady himself against Toki's shoulder, but the man had strength that he did not – never had and never would. It was a better bargain than letting Toki wheel him back to his room, anyway.

 

* * *

 

There was no place to go after a day like today but directly to bed. The process would yield less pain and better mobility tomorrow; today sucked.

Toki sat him down, slid off his shoes. Inquired with his eyes whether he needed further undressing. A slight shake of the head indicated, no. He fetched a bottle of water and two tablets of oxycodone from the medicine chest in Skwisgaar's bathroom. _It can't be kept within reach,_ the doctors all said. _That's how problems start._ They didn't know his problems started long ago.

That was it. His job was done. They stared at each other, unsure of what to say, how to proceed.

_"So. What's new with you?"_

Toki's laughter filled the room. It had been so long since Skwisgaar had heard it – since either of them had heard it. He only stopped when Skwisgaar joined, when the jovial giggles devolved into coughs and groans. The escape could only last for so long.

Toki, turning red, nervous again: "Uhm. Well. You probalies figures dis out but I goes away to kinds of a... wells, a nuthouse. Jus' lotsa doctors an' t'erapy. Different dan Twinkletits." He paused, frowned at the window. Not through it. He wanted to say "better," but he had yet to develop the maturity to appreciate the value of treatment. He would, if time would let him.

"Dey tells me some t'ings. Some nots good t'ings. About whats happens. When... uh... I does bad tings."

Skwisgaar was curious, but the Percocet was taking hold. _"Come here."_ He patted the bed space in front of him as he lay down. Toki stood frozen to his spot.

 _"Come here."_ Skwisgaar repeated, meaning it. Toki perched like a fawn ready to alight at the slightest provocation, looked back at the surprisingly smiling Swede. Frowned at him again.

"Does you know you's been talking to me only in Swedish to me since I been back?"

Skwisgaar's smile faltered. His gaze drifted away from Toki's. Up to the ceiling. Blanked.

 _"They couldn't understand me when I woke up. I thought I had aphasia. But that doesn't make sense, does it? Do people with aphasia know they have aphasia?"_ Toki had no idea what "afasi" meant, in Swedish, Norwegian, or English. _"Charles came in before the neurologist did and told them it was Swedish. Fucking idiots. The shrink said I'm using it because 'Skwisgaar needs to express himself clearly and comfortably right now.'_ Pfft _."_

His eyes flicked over to Toki's for a moment. _"Yes, I'm seeing a shrink too, Toki. You kind of have to after you survive getting beaten to death."_

His eyes flicked back over. Toki's were wide as saucers. _"Yes, my heart stopped a couple of times."_

Toki nearly fell over from the momentum, so quickly he sprang off the bed. He was to the door half a second later. Didn't turn back.

"You can'ts picks 'n' choose what parts of dis you deals wit', Toki!" Skwisgaar was shouting at a door swinging shut. Toki couldn't hear him over the sound of vomit splattering against stone, anyway.

 

* * *

 

0700.

Not who he expected at 0700, or at all. Momentary revulsion at the picture of him sitting there, at his bedside, watching him sleep, faded away when he remembered doing the same not too long ago. When he remembered Toki had, too.

"Hey."

He didn't respond.

"I talks to dem noirse Klokskateer ladies and dey tells me a lots of stuff." Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow. Toki shuffled in his seat. "I means, stuffs about how to helps you. T'ings dey does."

_"I don't need another little helper, Toki."_

Skwisgaar was a bad liar. Toki was a good bluff caller. He sat back in his chair, offered no assistance as Skwisgaar winced, struggled to reach the back brace he was under strict orders to wear – if he wanted to keep the abscess at bay. Twisting to the side was still painful, and he hadn't figured out a better place to keep it than in the spot once occupied by beautiful women. He snorted at the phrase. All women were beautiful.

But Toki sat and watched. Skwisgaar refused to admit to the daily morning call of a nurse Klokateer lady who would help him gear up for another pointless day. A call Toki had evidently preempted.

Skwisgaar was red in the face by the time he waved Toki over – from exhaustion, surely. He closed his eyes as he raised his arms; the infantilization of being dressed and undressed was more than he could bear.

But Toki operated professionally. Skwisgaar assumed the demeanor was as necessary to ensure the routine was properly executed as it was to divorce himself emotionally from it.

Skwisgaar was right.

But Toki couldn't keep the blush from his face as he straddled his erstwhile friend's legs, accepted a handhold on either shoulder, maneuvered the titanium form around his torso and lashed it into place.

Skwisgaar was grateful. "Tack." Still couldn't meet his eyes. _"I need a break."_

Toki leaned down, slowly, until Skwisgaar's braced back met the bed, leaned down further until his chest met Skwisgaar's braced chest, further still, until his lips met Skwisgaar's waiting lips. They moved against each other as though they'd done this forever, at every moment and juncture in time. But in truth, it was the first.

Toki pulled back. Skwisgaar pulled him back.

He hadn't been inside another person in so long, hadn't wanted to be, hadn't the strength even if he did. He hated every minute of it. Hated how it felt, how it made him feel alive again, worthy, loved, needed. He hated himself, hated Toki. Loved Toki. Loved it. Loved how it felt, how it made him feel alive again.

Toki felt the warmth. The twitch. Saw the eyes roll back. _"_ _Oh God."_ Let himself go.

He collapsed onto the body below him, oblivious of internal organs yet to heal, closeness yet to be earned. So desperate for it.

_"Okay, get up now."_

"No. You's comfy."

Skwisgaar's airways constricted. His lungs began to fill with blood again, and if he didn't clear them, if he didn't replace it with fresh air, he would drown.

_"Seriously, Toki. Move."_

"Mmmm."

The weight on his chest was crushing him, the weight of Toki Wartooth.

"Whats if I moves like dis?" Toki wedged his hands under Skwisgaar's shoulder blades, pressed himself into the Swede, restricting metal and Velcro be damned. Closed his lips over Skwisgaar’s quickened pulse, the ragged breathing he mistook for pleasure...

 _"Please, sir."_ Skwisgaar’s cheeks were awash with tears, his eyes focused on nothing Toki could ever see, perhaps had seen before. "Please, lets me go."

Toki released his grip, recoiled to the far corner of the bed, while his mate choked and wheezed and convulsed, pawed at the air, begged. He rolled to his side, eventually, over the protestations of the rigid metal brace, coughing violently. So violently, Toki was sure the walls that surrounded them would crumble under the soundwaves. He didn't say anything else, just lay there, curled up and coughing.

Blood on the pristine white sheets couldn't be missed. Red flag. Code red.

 

"He jus' start freakins out! I didn't do nothins to him, Charles!"

The young Norwegian, or perhaps the medication he was on, retained enough of his wits to make the call required of him in a situation like this. Mr. Fixit and the emergency medical team swarmed the pharmacologically-calmed blond.

"I believe you didn't do anything to him. This time."

Toki looked at him. Crumpled onto his chest in a fit of silent sobs.

Charles was getting tired of these physical displays of emotion. All of these displays of emotion.

Toki felt that familiar queasiness in his stomach, wanted to flee and remove its contents and refill it with enough alcohol to blot out the entire morning -- the last six months, if it wouldn't kill him. Or, if it would. But he stayed, and watched, and waited. It was his medicine.

**Author's Note:**

> The sequel to [The Yard Wolves Trilogy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13289691/chapters/30412455) that's been gestating in my evil lil mind for 9 months.


End file.
